Holding On
by cjdreams98
Summary: What happens when Tony gets low - is there anyone who can pick him up in time? Set post-CW, pre-IW. TW: suicide, self harm, depression.


**Hi! Hope you enjoy this story:) A few things before I start…**

 **1) In this story, Tony is not a reliable narrator. His thoughts and behaviour are warped by depression, and if you take anything away from this it's that DEPRESSION LIES. A lot (maybe too much) of this particular story comes from my personal experience with depression, and I've found at my worst what makes depression both terrifying and, at the time, inviting, is the rationality it presents with. This Tony would argue against this but he (or me, shout-out to self inserts) is ILL. Mental ill health has a very real ugly, debilitating, all-consuming side. This story is that side. If you can relate to any part of this, please never hesitate to reach out, to me, or family, or helplines, because the other take-away is THIS TOO WILL PASS. A bad day or week or year seems impossible to get through until you get through it, and you can. You can. You can you can you can.**

 **Okay. I could honestly go on forever, but… yeah. Be kind to yourself. Be safe.**

 **2) I know there might be some people that are waiting for me to finish The Worst Mistake, and I will, I swear! It's… on the list!**

 **3) Please let me know what you think! I'm planning to keep this as a one-shot for now but if people want more or want me to continue, or start something different entirely, I'm more than up for it – and if there's anything I could do better, I'm up for hearing that too:)**

 **4) I'll shut up. Aren't long author's notes the worst? ;)**

Tony was mad, the kind of mad 'fuming' didn't cover. In fact, if he was Bruce, he'd be a not-so-jolly-green-giant right about now. For the first time in a long time, he was really, properly pissed - not to mention terrified. His heart was racing fit to burst. (Gallows humour, anyone?)

He was also pretty sure he was going to puke, though that may have had more to do with the fact that he was plummeting dead-stick through the sky. Again.

And that wasn't even the annoying part.

The annoying part was the people trying to catch him.

But that was getting ahead of himself.

Where to start?

He supposed, like everything, it had started with Steve. Cap. Rogers.

Wonderful, perfect, punch-able Steve Rogers.

Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken for months, Tony could trace a lot of things in his life back to Steve. Howard's neglect. His Mom's death. A desperate, marrow-deep need to prove himself. A deeper still self-loathing.

And, in some ways, this.

Once upon a time in a land far from Jersey, there was a team, a family, who made a very public mistake. The authorities in the kingdom offered a set of accords, a set of rules to keep the kingdom, the family, safe. Together.

But His Highness refused to sign.

 _Steve_ refused to sign. Chose Barnes. Chose, in fact, the man who murdered Tony's parents. And hedid it without a second thought. After years of lecturing Tony about trusting your teammates, about honesty, _Steve_ was the one that held back. Kept secrets that, coming from a friend, from family, would have helped Tony understand. Maybe react differently (because, yes, now the rage was less blinding, Tony could see Barnes was far from a villain, even if he didn't buy him as a victim… yet).

The thing was… Steve did, and Tony didn't. Fury's super not-so-secret boyband, Tony's family, fell apart.

Resources, friends, reputations, and, oh yeah, Rhodey's life? Collateral. All of it. Well. Nearly. Close enough for Tony's heart to cave in. Close enough it cries to shut off, to protect the people it leans to from harm. Tony does the only thing he knows how, working solely and obsessively on ways to stop himself destroying anything else _good_.

It's too little too late. Glorified procrastination.

Steve is still gone.

Peter stays in Queens.

The compound is quiet. His would-be-home is nothing more than a reminder of all he might've had, if he'd been better, worked harder, and Tony gets… low. Really. Fucking. Low. He'd give anything to see Bruce, to tell him he knows what it's like not to see an end. That he knows what it's like when you can't shake the _wrong_.

But Bruce, the only person Tony would trust with those words, the only one he would trust to understand, is gone too. There's no one left who could take those words and read the things between them, who's been there. He's not sure of much but he knows he can't confide in anyone else, can't infect them.

A problem shared is not a problem halved; sometimes, they are doubled. Words have power, and he won't feed this.

Of course, there are other ways... He drinks, uses, doesn't eat, sleep, or talk. He trips into the hazyfloatynowhere and keeps away from everyone he might wreck in the process (because, unfortunately, he isn't completely alone; there are far too many people left who could catch this… thing that sits in his lungs).

No more collateral.

One morning, groggy, bruised, swaying, wondering dimly when 'waking up' became 'stop pretending to sleep', Tony makes a choice. A good choice, if the immediate calm is anything to go by. The best choice. It is, of course, an 'accident' - specifically one involving test runs of an upgraded War Machine suit and... himself. Test run. Training exercise.

The usual B.S.

B.S., because Tony knows the truth; he knows all the shit in the rotting fucking world comes back to him, not Steve, or Howard, or anyone else. He knows his time was long ago, and most importantly he knows how to fix that. The truth of this sits in his DNA, and he smiles thinking how hard he fought against it, for a while. He cared so much. Feigned and clawed for a strength that was never his.

And for what?

With a jolt, he remembers the desk drawer full of 'notes' in his room at MIT. He remembers stockpiling pills and lighters, hoarding rope, stealing one of Howard's guns, fitting a beam across the ceiling of every lab he designs _just in case,_ because even on a good not-so-bad day, he couldn't _not_ think about it _._ He remembers waking up the day after his parent's funeral in a pool of puke with a throbbing head reeking of spirits and prescription meds. He remembers a box cutter. Digital plans Jarvis wouldn't find. _Paper_ plans _J.A.R.V.I.S._ wouldn't find. One of the first things he remembers is a staircase, at least three stories high. Leaning over the banisters and reminding himself he could get hurt. Realising he had some control over that hurt. Of course, he was five; the Nanny scooped him up and yelled at him and it was never mentioned again. At 14, he did a number on his wrists. Bad. He'd run to his parents, blood, tears, heart, streaming, reeling, begging through animal sobs for... something. No-one said a word. It makes sense now; he knows he's finally, as he was then, onto something good, something right, because he was born for this. It's a fundamental part of his code.

Even at his best, as a 'hero', his only utility was a tendency to self-sacrifice. How quickly and willingly he'd strap himself to a nuke.

His life was always made to end.

In theory, it's perfect. He's already told Rhodey he's working on new versions of the War Machine armour, so there'll be no surprises there. Better yet, Rhodey never asked, so no survivors guilt. He's said goodbyes, of sorts. Set things up long ago, when dying was just an occupational hazard, so Pepper and Happy and the Parkers and everyone relying on Stark Industries or the Stark Relief Foundation will be safe, taken care of.

It's all timed to the second. Pepper leaves for a meeting at 11:54. At 11:59, Tony calls Happy and asks if he's still okay picking Peter up from school (Wednesday's, like today, are shop or lab days, and Tony doesn't want the kid to be alone when he hears about...). He then spends two minutes trashing the shop, half-empty mug perched on a holographic blueprint, post-its with random reminders for 'later', anything to make it look like he planned to come back. He shoots Rhodey a message: ' _Rhode'-testing your new suit. It ROX. You can thank me later – TS_ , and laughs when Rhodey comes back with _You do not have permission to make that pun, Stank_. He almost doesn't reply, but eventually Tony responds with a quick _Never asked, dear; you love me anyway ;)_ and hopes Rhodey can read the 'thank you' he wants to send. It's not enough, he knows that, but to say goodbye, to leave Rhodey or anyone with the words they deserve means admitting how weak he is, means leaving them with an icky, clinging guilt. Saying goodbye would be tantamount to sharing his plans and pain outright and expecting them to take it on. One thing he can't do is pass on that burden. So he doesn't.

By 12:03, exactly as planned, all that's left to do is... well. Get the hell on with it.

He's ready. So, so ready, and he feels in his bones this time is different. For whatever reason, this is the grand finale. Everything he survived, Afghanistan, New York, Berlin, Sokovia, all the days he fought against it… it all comes down to this. This time he'll succeed.

Friday has other ideas. Somehow. Tony uploaded her for appearances sake, so that when his death is investigated, it will look like he really was collecting data from the suit, running a test. Tinkering. Planning to come home. She's not supposed to be able to spot any ulterior motive, but when Tony tries to cut the power 12 minutes into his flight, the AI has an unprecedented human reaction.

'Friday, I gotta run some tests quick, make sure Rhodes doesn't... make sure Germany doesn't happen again. I need you to cut the power.'

'Boss, it appears you've neglected to install a parachute or comms units. A fall from this altitude -'

'I got it, Fri, trust me on this one.'

'Readings indicate abnormal heart and brain activity. Potentially dangerous tests in this condition -'

'Can the juice, Fri.'

'Boss, all available information -'

'I'm not asking. Power. Down.'

'Would you like me to contact Miss Potts? I can inform Colonel Rhodes, or Mr Hogan, perhaps the Parkers -'

'No! God, no. Just... please. Power down.' Tony hated his shaking hands, his shaking voice, hated everything about himself in that moment. He felt pathetic as he fumbled for some kind of manual off switch. It was suddenly impossible to think, to remember what he'd done five minutes ago let alone how he'd built this good-for-nothing, way-too-elaborate suit. He'd have done better with a repulser to the brain. A 'misfire'.

'One moment boss.' There was a pause and the suit's dashboard went wild, lights and diagrams and words flashing by too fast for Tony to focus on anything. 'To be clear, you'd like me to terminate all systems at an altitude of over 4000 feet?'

'Yes.' Tony said shortly, scowling at the onslaught of information he couldn't make out, deciding that if the AI could throw a hissy fit, he was justified one of his own. Forget dying with dignity, Tony was going to go down bickering with a machine. Fitting. It was freaking poetic, really.

'And, can I ask -?'

'Because I said so, Friday. _Because._ '

'And you're certain you don't want to talk to your family?'

Family. A flash of missing. He would never marry Pepper. He would never see Peter graduate, build a career, start a family of his own. He'd never tease Happy. He would never work with Bruce, spar with Nat, drink with Thor, laugh with Clint, talk to Steve... In that split second all the days he was giving up hit him like a missile (and yeah, he would know) - but it was for the best. Biological or chosen... the best way for him to protect his family was and would always be to die, something Tony had known since long before New York.

'No.'

'And those are my only orders?'

Tony was too far gone to bother with suspicion. Every spark of emotion died as soon as it came, leaving him blank and deflated. Drained. The constant war between fear and nothing, panic and grief, was exhausting.

What he wouldn't give for peace.

'Yes. Just... please.' He was probably the only person in the world who couldn't have heard the plea, the begging in his voice at that moment. The only one who wouldn't acknowledge it, anyway.

'Boss -' but Tony had found it, the off switch. An in-case-of-emergency system-shutdown button he built into all his suits after the terrifying moment he'd called one in his sleep and almost killed Pepper. He pushed it and with it pushed away the pain in his (sore, panicked, desperate, useless beating) heart.

'Bye Fri.' He murmured. There were a few seconds in which his momentum carried him forwards, another in which he froze, suspended, before his stomach lurched and he began to fall. Tony knew the words were nothing, that the last thing he would ever say carried no meaning.

That was alright.

Tony smiled. He smiled and grinned and laughed, a horrible, hysterical noise that fought with the sobs sitting on his chest.

He laughed until he realised it might be the last sound he ever heard, at which point he stopped, because that thought was... gross. Gross enough that Tony clamped his mouth shut and tried to focus on the racing blue-black-grey blur of the world as it span around him. The suit now seemed a tad dramatic. He wished he could rip it off and let the wind lash his skin - but that might make more mess, and besides his body didn't seem to be... working anymore. His limbs were slack, his head was ringing, and his bones felt hollow somehow.

Also, his eyes kept rolling back in his skull. Consciousness and lack of it seemed to be playing tug of war, which was a little distracting. Actually, it was annoying as _fuck._ Really took the drama out of internal death-bed (death-sky?) monologues.

Jesus, he was _gone_.

Truth was, Tony wanted it over, and over now. He wished he'd picked something quicker. He wished he'd done it sooner, wished he hadn't been so scared of what he'd leave behind if the world could clearly, confidently pin his death as intentional. As...

Even now he couldn't say it.

All he could do was wish it quicker - and he did.

He fell, and waited, and wished it all over.

He really, really wished it quicker when, with a sharp thud, something struck his shoulder. The impact was followed by a quick flash of static, a small shock, and the sound of the wind being smothered by a familiar static in his ears.

'Tony.' That voice… It almost made him want to fight, made him _want_ to want to stay.

Almost.

'Pep?'

'Can you hear me? Tony?'

'Hi.' Something in that word made Pepper freeze. His voice was soft, adoring, _normal_ , and if it hadn't been so distant Pepper might have been relieved. Instead, there was a beat of silence.

'What's going on?' She asked gently.

'Nothing, honey, I got this.' Maybe half a minute more...

'Don't lie to me Tony, I swear to God. Not now. You're telling me that's not you in Rhodey's suit about to crash into God Knows, Long Island? Or the Atlantic? I don't know what your plan is but please, Tony, please tell me you're coming home tonight -' A few seconds now, surely.

'I'm sorry.'

'Tony -'

'It's okay, Pep, it's okay. Don't tell you this enough, but… I love you, Pepper Potts.'

'You tell me all the time,' she says softly, 'so why don't you stop whatever it is you're doing, ass-hat, and come see me so I can say it back?'

'I can't.' _I shouldn't._

'You can.' _Please._

'No.' _No more._

'Tony –' _Stay._

'I'm sorry.' _Goodbye._

Tony closed his eyes, a blissful smile slipping across his face as he prepared for a second impact, the final impact - but it never came.

Instead, there was a jerking motion and he bounced up, fast, for a good moment the human equivalent of a yo-yo.

'Pepper, what is that? What - Is this you?'

'Um, not quite Mr Stark!' The shock of that small, too-cheery voice made Tony cold.

'Kid?' Tony scrabbled at his chest to find that, yes, he had quite literally been caught in a web. A web attached to his suit at one end and a teenage boy at the other. A small, pale teenage boy dangling from the belly of a quinjet. Despite the obvious fear in his eyes, Peter's face was set in determination, calm above his panic. Calm Tony wanted to drown in. Calm he knew he didn't deserve.

'Second time lucky.' Peter flashed a quick grin, but his shaking shoulders and wobbling words betrayed the strain he was under. Tony vaguely noted that Peter wasn't in his suit, and that the hoodie-and-graphic-tee combo that made him seem even younger than usual meant he must've come straight from school.

'Fuck. No, God no.' Tony cursed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't the plan. He wasn't supposed to see big brown eyes and a short mop of curls and white knuckles on hands that refused to let him go. Peter _definitely_ wasn't supposed to see _him_. Not like this.

'We're still a little high, so I'm going to pull you up, okay?' A distant burst of static; when Peter's voice returned, he was no longer talking to Tony. 'Yes. Okay. Yes, Miss Potts, I got him. Right. Okay Mr Colonel. Er, War Machine. Mr Rhodey, sir.' Peter said, paying no attention to Tony's potty-mouth. On another day, in another lifetime, Tony might've laughed.

'Don't -' Tony began, but he was soon cut off again.

'I have to, Mr Stark, you know I do. And you have to let me. Just come up and we'll figure out what happened with... the suit alright? We'll figure it out. Whatever's wrong, we'll figure it out.' Tony knew Peter wasn't talking about the suit, and his throat closed up. If he wasn't careful, if he wasn't quick, the weak part of him, the part that wanted to latch onto the kid's words and cry out for help, for peace, for anything, would win.

No.

He'd come too far.

They were still a few hundred feet in the air, hovering above a grey strip of water. If he was fast…

Tony swept a gloved hand across the chest plate of his suit, ignoring the cries from above. The kid's webs were strong and, usually, impossible to remove, but the weight and smooth surface of the suit made it easier than it should've been to brush away the web and send himself sprawling through the air again. He scrambled to tear off the faceplate and took a harsh breath of cold, thin air, trying to steel himself again. Seeing Peter... it had almost cut through something he couldn't name. He couldn't let that happen.

'No!' The second scream was loud enough that Tony didn't need the comms device they'd shot at him; Peter's fear tore through everything, and to his horror, Tony was pretty sure he saw the kid throw himself out of the jet into the sky straight after him.

'Parker, don't!' Tony yelled, too late.

It was at this point he got pissed. Spinning uncontrollably, fighting nausea and a growing terror, Tony grew disturbingly angry. He hated himself for his cowardice, for putting his kid in danger. Hated that he was, even now, with Peter spiralling somewhere near him, still terrified his plan was going to fail. Worst of all, he felt a growing resentment towards Pepper, Friday, Peter, for caring enough to try and stop him. That made him madder still, because he knew he had no right to take these people, his family, for granted.

It was all too much.

Christ.

When did it ever stop?

When would they let him go?

Exactly who were 'they'? Did it matter?

Yes.

Like it or not, they were here, and if anyone else got hurt…

He couldn't see Peter.

'Parker? Parker? Pepper, what's happening?'

No response. Anxiety gripped him, tightening around his torso until he couldn't breathe, black spots burst in the corners of his vision, something was pummelling him -

Except something actually _had_ collided with him, and when he could see he realised Peter had caught him, one arm clutching Tony's at the elbow, their forearms aligned, the other locked around a second web that disappeared somewhere in the quinjet. Tony kept his hand slack, wondering if he could bring himself to slip through Peter's grasp and, if he did, just how quickly the teen would react. Tony was not about to put his kid in harm's way again, but the desperate part of him was still searching for an out.

Peter wasn't letting go. His skin was all gooseflesh and ink stains, a string of numbers on the back of his hand.

1154115912031203 1 3.

What?

Oh.

12:03.

'Spidey-senses.' Peter quips half-heartedly, following Tony's gaze, unsure and _scared._ All-over scared now. Because of him.

Tony couldn't resist giving his hand an experimental tug. One last shot. Peter's grip was… iron.

'Don't, Mr Stark. It's over. Let it be over.' Peter said, slowly and deliberately, keeping his eyes on Tony. With his faceplate gone, it was impossible not to meet the kid's earnest gaze, and Tony couldn't help flushing with guilt when Peter smiled and added, 'I've got you.'

'You don't -' _I'm not worth it._

'I know. Don't have to. Doesn't matter. I want to, and not just for me. For everyone.' _We need you._

'Pete, I - it's -' _I'm a fucking mess._

'I said I've got you, Mr Stark, and I do, but… you gotta help me.' _I don't mind._

'Peter –' _Go._

'I need you Tony. We all do.' _Stay._

Tony couldn't speak. Couldn't meet the teenager's imploring eyes.

'Come on, Mr Stark –' There was panic in Peter's voice.

'No. Tony. You called me Tony.' And for a split second there was nothing but Peter's shaky smile. For a split second, Tony was _there_ again.

Some days, a split second is enough.

'Hold on, you hear me?' Peter said again. His grip, if possible, tightened, and Tony wouldn't have been surprised to see indents in the arm of the suit.

How could he say no?

Tony took one second, one second to wallow in the guilt, the shame, the regret, his anger at failing – and pushed it, not away, but at least aside. For now. In the end, it was just too heavy, and he was far too tired – so he put it down. He put it all down.

'I hear you Peter.' and though it went against every instinct, though his head was screaming at him that this was a mistake, he let his hand close around Peter's arm, let the kids shudder of relief wash over him, and allowed himself to be pulled up into the jet to the kid and Pepper and Rhodey and _home_ and, about a millisecond later, a fierce hug.

Despite everything that told him not to, against all odds… he held on.


End file.
